Cracked
by templremus1990
Summary: They say talking to yourself is the first sign of madness. Oneshot, set after episode 8 of series 2.


**Cracked**

Sam Tyler is crazy.

The group of four or five hiss, call, jeer this at him, twirling their fingers around their heads, mouths lolling open in a grotesque imitation of the 'spastic' boy three streets down. They have thrown the word at him so often that it barely hurts any more, though he doesn't tell them that, doesn't let indifference show in his reaction. The longer he continues to look cowed, the longer it is before they hit upon something new.

He can turn this word into background noise. The rest are harder to ignore.

In a moment of inspiration he has taken a shortcut across the canal, desperate to put as much space between him and them as possible; a heated decision that has left him with nowhere to go. The endless grass bank is flanked by the backs of houses, grey and impassable, the narrow paths between each one strewn with dustbins and dog shit. This close to sundown the smell is almost liquid, given flow and body by the heat of the day. Moist river air clogs his nose and lungs, every shadow alive with real or imagined horror.

"Hey, matchstick!"

That is another of their pet names for him, so-called because his legs are so thin they make both knees seem comically swollen. For about a year his shorts were long enough to cover them, but no matter how hard he tugs now the taunts keep coming. The words form gruesome amalgamations in his head; _titchy-loony, midget-mental_, they whisper, in time with the drubbing of his school bag as he runs, leaving the security of cement for the slope ahead. It's been raining, the scrabble of feet throwing up mud that coats his bare calves, battered shoes slipping uselessly on wet grass.

Almost on all fours, he stumbles up over the embankment and onto the walkway, turning left at random. The shouts are closer now, though the words are lost, everything drowned out by the sound of his breathing, the beat of blood in his ears as his soles slap the concrete. If he moves fast enough, even the thought-words stop.

Somebody slams against him.

The weight of the older boy knocks him flat and pins him in an instant. He tastes blood, realises that he has bitten his own tongue, but all other concerns soon dissipate with the first blow. Doubled over, legs drawn up beneath him, he kicks out, striking only empty air. It's the signal the others need. In less than a minute they have seized both shoes and sent them flying; one strikes him on the small of the back. The satchel is torn from him and a shower of books scatters round his head, loose pages caught up and crumpled by laughing hands.

He can't breathe, choking on the coppery tang of blood, arms flung up around his face as the seconds stretch into an eternity. Someone empties a handful of lukewarm, filthy water over his head and another voice cries out in the distance, breathless, furious.

"Get away, you dirty little-"

The blows stop as abruptly as they began, to be replaced by the sound of running footsteps. He doesn't dare look up, but the new hands on his shoulders are bigger; grown-up hands, strong yet somehow nervous.

"It's okay. It's okay. They're gone."

Little by little, Sam uncurls himself.

* * *

"They said they were gonna kill me."

Sam scrubs at his eyes with the stranger's handkerchief, as though to clean them. If the stranger hears his breathing shudder, he doesn't remark on it.

"They'll never dare, Sam. You know that, don't you?"

Sam likes the way this man says his name- not _Sammy_, the endearment favoured by his mother, or the dozens of other terms coined for him by his classmates; just _Sam_, solid and reliable and imbued with a kind of respect such as he has never experienced before.

"You haven't heard them."

The man opens his mouth as if to reply, then thinks better of it and merely nods, pulling the handkerchief away.

"Let's go find that shoe of yours, eh?"

As it turns out, the boys' throw has fallen just short of the water. Sam watches the stranger skitter nimbly down the bank, arms outstretched for balance until he reaches the edge. Once there he holds the worn-out shoe aloft like a trophy, grinning with triumph. Sam is too exhausted to smile back.

Every muscle aches, the river water drying in patches on his skin and his head still reeling from the chase. Bruises are forming all down his left leg, so he lies on his right instead, hugging his knees against the grass and pretending he can't feel his eyes burn.

"C'mon, Sam. We need to get home."

The hands lift him carefully off the ground, into a fireman's carry over one shoulder.

"Mum'll be missing you."

Sam's fingers tighten over the leather jacket, breathing in the rich, musty smell.

The shoulders beneath it hitch slightly as the man swallows, his voice lowered to a hoarse whisper.

"You're not crazy, Sam. Remember that. You're not."

But Sam no longer hears him.


End file.
